Chapter Text
When signing the peace treaty, Optimus Prime hadn’t anticipated there would be a formal dinner afterwards.
The prolonged war had erased most things on Cybertron—some visible, like the once-glorious cities; some invisible, the very concept of dining as anything beyond refuelling. For aeons, sustenance had been reduced to function – efficient. Energon cubes fulfilled all their needs: convenient, easy to store, and not bad to the taste. War left no room for anything else—quick energy replenishment and then back to the battlefield had been Optimus Prime's life for millions of years. It was therefore understandable that his processor took a moment to respond when he heard about the dinner.
Megatron, of course, had an entirely different reaction.
"Less than a cycle after signing the armistice, and the ghosts of the Old Council are already haunting the vents," Megatron sneered, leaning back in the uncomfortable guest chamber chair. His optics glinted with malicious amusement. For a fleeting moment, Optimus feared he might rip up the treaty then and there.
"It's merely a symbolic gesture, Megatron. A shared meal to signify our commitment to peace. The war has just ended—we need to give our people enough confidence."
"Ah, yes. Nothing instils confidence like watching us politely chew our rations without suddenly blasting each other's sparks out." Megatron stretched, the picture of sardonic ease. It was the same expression Optimus had seen countless times before battles, anticipating Autobot failure. Honestly, this wasn’t exactly helping settle Optimus’s nerves.
"Why this aversion to a simple meal?" Optimus asked. Right now, they were stuck in the waiting room with nothing to do. Both Autobots and Decepticons agreed that the longer their leaders spent together in one room, the more convincing the truce appeared. Although Optimus suspected Starscream secretly hoped they'd end up locked in mortal combat, because he'd clearly heard the little bastard lock the door as he left.
"While the rest of Cybertron relies on energon cubes to rebuild the planet, we’re here comfortably indulging in a feast? Doesn't seem to align with Autobot ideals," Megatron countered, gesturing vaguely towards the window overlooking the ruined skyline.
Optimus rolled his optics. The retort – And who shattered it? – burned on his vocalizer. However, he immediately held his tongue, realising it was a dangerous topic. Megatron, meanwhile, looked almost disappointed—enough so that Optimus suspected he'd deliberately tried to provoke him moments ago.
Very well. Optimus vented internally. We managed four million years of war and a peace treaty. We can endure four cycles in a locked room. It was manageable. He simply needed to offline his optics at strategic moments, focusing on the dull hum of the room's environmental systems. If he couldn't see Megatron's infuriating smirk, the warlord's words were slightly less likely to make him yearn for the satisfying weight of his axe.
Nearly five cycles later, they were finally released. The organiser of the event apologised repeatedly, baffled by the inexplicable lock malfunction. Out of the corner of his optics, Optimus caught Starscream and several Seekers lurking nearby, barely containing their amusement at the flustered mech. Optimus merely patted the organiser’s shoulder, somewhat worried that if he said something, the poor bot might go offline due to a spark arrest.
The dinner was held at the top of the Iacon Beacon Tower, a venue that had once been a favoured gathering spot for Cybertron’s high society. The instant the war ended, these high-caste bots had hurried back to rebuild the tower, making it—both literally and figuratively—a beacon amidst the ruins. Though he hated to admit it, Optimus conceded Megatron had a point: the Council clung stubbornly to old habits.
"So Starscream really locked you up for four cycles?" Bumblebee commed as Optimus entered the lavishly decorated hall.
"Five, if you count the time it took them to replace the lock," Optimus replied. "Is everything alright?"
"Smooth as polished chrome. No deactivations, no weapons fire taking out half the room. Oh, and Hot Rod and Soundwave visited the prep-kitchen."
"Hot Rod and Soundwave?" Optimus blinked his optics, finding the combination rather peculiar. "What did they do?"
"Suggested a few changes to the menu. You know how much these… bots love extravagance," Bumblebee said, glancing distastefully toward the high-caste bots whose frames gleamed without a single scar from battle. "Hot Rod and Soundwave felt it wasn’t appropriate."
Optimus raised his optic ridges slightly in surprise. But before he could ask further, the chime signalling the dinner's commencement resonated through the hall. According to the arrangements, Optimus had no choice but to sit at the head of the table alongside Megatron, leaving him only able to watch Bumblebee retreat to his seat. The long table stretched before them, Autobots and Decepticons seated rigidly on either side like opposing delegations at a tense negotiation. Optimus noted with cautious relief a few scattered instances of mingling across the divide, but for most, the table remained a stark barrier.
The organiser wisely skipped the unnecessary speeches from the leaders and hurriedly ended the pre-meal formalities under Megatron’s threatening glare. Soon, the first course arrived, presented on antigravity platters floating gently above the table, rotating slowly.
It was Chromium-Ion Glacis, a thin layer of ion gel that had undergone high-pressure chromium plating. Its surface shimmered softly, metallic sheen tracing intricate patterns of delicate electric arcs. Long before the war, it had been a widely loved appetiser across all classes of Cybertronians.
Arranged around the delicate Glacis were two distinct accompaniments. One was Inhibitor Emulsion Paste, beloved by Autobots—a pale grey sauce with a subtle metallic tang and an unnervingly smooth texture that seemed to coat the intake lines, promising a gentle, calming effect on the processor. Beside it, the Decepticon-favoured Thermo-Spike Sauce was its polar opposite. This magma-red concoction bubbled menacingly on its levitating dish, emitting volatile energy pulses that promised a high-frequency, processor-scorching spice.
Optimus felt every optic in the room turn towards him. Megatron, however, made no move. He merely reclined with deceptive ease, clearly entertained and waiting to see how Optimus would handle this delicate situation.
Optimus Prime reached out and took a glacis piece. He swiftly slid it along the edge of the platter, coating it generously in both sauces before placing it into his mouth. The initial sensation was like biting into frozen starlight – crisp and clean, but quickly the two sauces assaulted his taste circuits. They blended perfectly: beneath the subtle acidic tang of the Inhibitor Emulsion Paste, the Thermo-Spike Sauce erupted like electric shocks of spice. For a brief moment, it felt as though countless spikes were dancing on his glossa. As he chewed,the ion-infused core of the Glacis released a resonant pulse, a low thrum like a magnetic field reversing, sending gentle vibrations shimmering down his internal conduits. After countless cycles spent subsisting on energon cubes, this was nothing short of perfection.
Before Optimus could reach for another piece, Megatron grabbed a handful without ceremony, dunked them unceremoniously into both sauces, and tossed them into his mouth, producing a sound like flint striking metal. A ripple of approving cheers and clanking applause went down the long table as mechs on both sides eagerly reached for their own servings.
"Not entirely unpleasant, is it?" Optimus observed Megatron taking another piece. A peculiar warmth flickered in Optimus's spark, as if they had travelled back in time, to an age long ago, when they could still share a meal at the same table.
As the last traces of the Glacis vanished, levitating drones delivered the next course: steaming bowls of Spark-Core Fusion Casserole. It mimicked a miniature, edible power core – a brittle, sweet-tasting alloy crust that shattered under the spoon to reveal a molten core of high-density energy gel, radiating a warm, golden light like captured starlight. With his first sip, Optimus discovered the gel concealed tiny, low-activity particles that emitted a subtle crunch as they settled between his dental plates.
"They really put thought into this," Optimus murmured, finding he couldn’t suppress a slight smile. The taste of home, of Cybertron before the long darkness, was profoundly moving.
"Consider it the Council's residual value,” Megatron shrugged, notably restraining himself from indulging too much. Optimus had noticed this trait long ago—sometimes, he almost suspected Megatron could sustain himself on a single energon cube indefinitely, as if the laws of energy conservation didn’t apply to him at all.
"You should eat more," Optimus heard himself say involuntarily, momentarily startled that he’d actually said it aloud.
"Like that scrap heap?" Megatron nodded towards Bumblebee, who was somehow already downing his third bowl of Fusion Casserole. How a mech of his size contained it was a mystery only Primus could answer.
Next came the Ironscale Cuts made from Electrodeer, followed by the Skyfin Steamer from Vos– a dish once wildly popular in that city-state. The moment it arrived, it drew loud praise from the Seekers. Inevitably, conversations shifted to their homelands. They talked, laughed, and occasionally got into minor squabbles (Optimus was certain he saw Windblade hit Starscream with a fishbone). For the first time in millions of years, they had never felt such unburdened joy. It was as if the warmth of the meal could melt away old barriers, allowing mechs who once crossed blades to freely clap each other’s shoulders.
"Look at them," Megatron leaned closer, and Optimus could still sense the residual warmth of the Fusion Casserole lingering on him. "Seems the High Castes aren't fond of being sidelined."
Optimus followed Megatron’s gaze to the high-caste bots crowded at the far end of the long table, their expressions uniformly sour. Perhaps they'd expected the banquet to be their opportunity to forge connections with high-ranking members of both factions, securing positions in the future government. Whatever the case, Optimus thought with mild satisfaction, they were bound to be disappointed. At least the Autobots and Decepticons had found common ground on one thing: an equal contempt for High Caste mechs who'd never lifted a weapon in battle.
The electronic chime sounded again, and suddenly the high-caste bots seemed to forget their earlier neglect. They craned forward, gazes fixed expectantly on the service entrance. Megatron’s expression shifted into annoyance; he drummed his fingers against the table, glaring irritably at the kitchen door. Only then did Optimus realise it was time for the main course. Traditionally, the centrepiece was either unnecessarily complicated or outrageously rare and expensive. Remembering Bumblebee’s earlier remark, Optimus sincerely hoped Hot Rod and Soundwave had exercised good judgment in revising the menu.
Two drones emerged together, carrying a massive, rough metal bowl filled with some thick liquid. Instantly, the high-caste bots displayed shock and disappointment. This was no refined delicacy—it was the simplest, most common fare every Cybertronian had consumed during the war: energon soup.
True energon soup was never made from finely filtered, pale blue energon. It used dull, murky, low-grade stock, thick as magma, pulsing with a heavy, uneven luminescence. Occasionally, glimmers of undiluted, concentrated energon surfaced briefly, like oily patterns flickering across dirty motor oil. Bland and viscous, it required effort to scrape from the bowl with a spoon. On the harshest days of combat, the soup often contained gritty flecks of undissolved metal and mineral particles, and if left untouched, its surface quickly formed a film of grey oxidation foam.
Yet it had provided them with life and hope. On those nights after returning from battle, repairing their damaged frames, a steaming bowl of energon soup had always been enough to rekindle the spark, flooding their systems with warmth. It reminded them they were still alive, capable of surviving to the next solar cycle—and ready to fight another day.
Gradually, the bots lining both sides of the long table grew quiet. They stared at the energon soup, this beloved yet despised dish that had accompanied them through countless stellar cycles. Their expressions held a near-reverent intensity. For the first time, Megatron reached forward first, scooping out a bowlful of soup. The viscous, low-grade energon stretched in glowing blue strands from the ladle. Slowly, he drank down the first bowl and exhaled calmly, as if transported back to one of those temporary ceasefire nights, savouring a brief peace in the barracks.
Under the bewildered gazes of the high-caste bots, everyone began helping themselves to the energon soup. Compared to the delicacies they'd enjoyed earlier, the taste was frankly awful. The low-quality energon burned unevenly in their engines, creating a rough, jittery sensation. Bits of mineral debris sometimes lodged between their dental plates or require extra internal filtration cycles to process. Not to mention the lingering ozone scent, with only rare, fleeting moments when the faint sweetness of a lucky drop of high-grade energon could be detected.
In the quiet atmosphere, Megatron served himself a second bowl. Optimus noted it was likely the most of any dish the former warlord had consumed that night. A thin layer of foam had formed on the soup’s surface after sitting for a while. As both leaders lifted their bowls and blew softly across the surface in an identical gesture, their optics met. For the first time that night, a shared, fleeting smile touched their faces. Perhaps, Optimus mused, after millions of years of war, Autobots and Decepticons share more common ground than he ever imagined. Even a humble bowl of energon soup could hold shared memories, reminding them more clearly of the silent majority across their vast planet than any refined cuisine ever could.
"I must admit," Megatron’s voice held an uncommon softness. "I didn't expect this."
Neither did I, Optimus thought silently. He glanced toward Hot Rod, noticing that he’d somehow ended up seated next to Soundwave. Their optics met, and Hot Rod flashed him a proud grin.
"It carries more meaning than anything else we’ve served tonight," Optimus said, finding himself unconsciously leaning slightly closer to Megatron.
“Indeed. I've been drinking this stuff since my mining days."
“Truly?” Optimus was slightly startled; Megatron rarely spoke of his past.
"Truly. And then I drank it for cycles upon cycles afterwards. Honestly? I despised it."
"If possible," Optimus said, looking into his half-empty bowl, "I would wish no mech ever needs to consume such a thing again. Perhaps that is the essence of peace. What do you think?"
"Just for better food? Doesn't seem to align with Autobot ideals," Megatron remarked, though his voice carried a rare note of amusement.
"Also," Optimus countered, a spark of dry humor igniting, "to give the upper crust a small… lesson." He gestured subtly towards the head of the table. The high-caste mechs, desperate to maintain dignity, were wrestling with their portions of the awful broth, condensation beading visibly on their faceplates from the effort and revulsion.
"It seems this little dish still has some residual value."
"Maybe even more than the Council’s," Optimus added. They both paused, then broke into hearty laughter, drawing curious glances from those nearby.
"For Cybertron," Optimus raised his bowl of energon soup, leaving the elegant crystal glasses of refined, high-purity energon untouched.
"For Cybertron," Megatron echoed, lifting his bowl as well. The low-grade energon sloshed gently within, its faint blue light shimmering like the fragile, renewed hope glowing beyond the windows of the rebuilding world.